


Loud

by bewildered



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: F/M, Missing Scene, Shameless, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-13
Updated: 2018-10-13
Packaged: 2019-08-01 07:03:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16279913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bewildered/pseuds/bewildered
Summary: Now that they have their voices back, Buffy and Spike have a lot to say.Written for the Elysian Fields 12 Years 12 Seasons Challenge. Prompt #9. Glorious banner by angelic_amy.





	Loud

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Sigyn for beta-reading, and to the Chatzy crowd for general cheerleading and brainstorming. Thanks also to angelic_amy for making a banner that I was desperate to claim and then making it even better when she personalized. Just look at it.
> 
> Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

Buffy’s throat was raw from the power of her scream as she watched the Gentlemen’s headless bodies collapse, like marionettes whose strings had been cut, and she somehow wanted to keep on screaming loud, set free her voice that had been silenced for days, but instead she gasped and shuddered with relief and tried not to think too hard about the bloody hearts in jars, or the incredible mess the bad guys’ head goo was making of a perfectly good clock tower, or the guy on the other side of the room who wasn’t at all who she’d thought he was.

Riley had ducked when the heads exploded, eyes wildly casting about as if he were expecting his head to be next, but after a bit he’d straightened and poked at the nearest body with the butt of his gun, giving Buffy a furtive, confused glance before his eyes flickered away.

The silence was deafening.

Buffy was almost relieved when it was broken by a staticky squawk. “ _Base to Lilac One. Come in, Lilac One._ ”

_Lilac?_ No, she probably hadn’t heard that right. It must have said Riley. Though the woman’s voice on the other end of the walkie-talkie sounded weirdly familiar….

Riley looked at Buffy again, eyes hooded, tugging a walkie-talkie from his belt. “Go ahead, Base. I, uh, got a 10-12 here.”

“ _Roger that. Get to a secure location. I need your report ASAP, Lilac One. Has the threat been neutralized?_ ”

“Affirmative.” He gave Buffy another confused look, then stared down at the bodies on the floor. “We’re going to need a cleanup team. Snipers did their job.”

Snipers? Really?

“ _Have you detained the witness for debriefing?_ ”

Riley fell silent for a long moment, eyes fixed on Buffy’s face, then turned on his heel and stalked out of the room. “Negatory,” he said firmly. “The civilian left the area, unable to identify…” His voice trailed off as he passed out of Buffy’s hearing.

Which was good, because she _so_ didn’t want to hear any of what he’d been saying.

She wanted to scream out her frustration, bang her fists into the walls, shout from the top of the stupid clock tower that life was just! Not! Fair! But she wasn’t stupid; she knew that “cleanup team” and “debriefing” were both things she did not want to hang around for, and so she quickly gathered her crossbow and the bolts she had scattered and the pieces of the shattered box -- Giles would want those, for research or posterity or maybe just for decoration -- and headed out the door.

The opposite way from Riley. If that was even his name. The guy she’d finally kissed because she’d thought he was exactly the kind of totally normal, no-drama, all-American, pulse-having guy she was supposed to go for.

Life was absolutely one-hundred-percent Not Fair.

*

It wasn’t bloody fair.

The watcher and his bird were huddled together by his book-strewn desk, Giles rapidly turning the pages of yet another book, while Olivia-- well, Spike didn’t rightly know what she was doing, she didn’t seem to be an especially useful sort when all was said and done. Likely just looking picturesque and gazing admiringly at her lover’s manly research and whatnot and planning the evening shag. Maybe murmuring sweet nothings for him to lip-read. No bloody accounting for taste; hot bird like her could do far better.

Spike had reclaimed the couch now that Xander and his demon-girl had swanned off to fuck. Which was infuriating on so many levels he didn’t even want to think about it, though of course he did because he didn’t have anything else to do, now, did he? Couldn’t kill, couldn’t speak, couldn’t even smoke since the watcher had refused to pony up for a pack of Morleys, the sodding hypocritical cheapskate. Nothing left but humiliation for Spike. Drinking cold blood from novelty mugs, assaulted by a mawkish boy with the strength of a kitten, passed around from house to house like a bloody fruitcake at Christmas.

Not to mention turned into a bloody puppet by Teen Witch’s careless magic. In love with the slayer. How sick and perverted was that? He’d spent hours adoring her, kissing her, fondling her. Welcomed into her inner circle. Loved. And then it had all been taken away.

He glared at the recliner in the corner where they’d billed and cooed and he’d--

Fuck. What was on the telly?

He’d just switched on the ancient set when he felt it, a rush of airborne magic. It felt like a breath, like a real breath, one bringing oxygen to a living body, not the mechanical breaths he didn’t need except to smoke and speak and smell, and he had just realized it was his voice, his voice had returned to him, when the silence was broken by Olivia, her silent conversation with Giles suddenly given volume.

“--can’t stay here with us, he--” She broke off, surprised. “My voice. It’s back.”

“Oh.” Giles sighed deeply and removed his glasses, leaning back in his chair. “Thank heavens. Buffy must have defeated the Gentlemen.”

“Or they got their seven hearts and moved on,” Spike pointed out. God, it felt good to be able to speak. If his only joy in existence was to be standing on the sidelines pointing out how stupid the bloody Scoobies were, perhaps gloating over the fact that they were all going to die, he was absolutely going to wallow in it. “Might have even got the slayer’s.”

That gave him a sick little stab in the belly, thinking about the slayer’s heart ripped out of her chest -- was his to kill, wasn’t she? Not some demented demon mime’s! -- but it was worth it for the expression on Rupert’s face.

Watcher got control of himself the moment after, resolutely setting his jaw. “No. I’m quite confident that Buffy was victorious.” He gave Olivia a wry, weak-sauce smile. “She’s really quite gifted.”

“Well, bully for our team, then.” Spike flopped back down on the couch. “I’m sure she’ll be returning any minute now to flip her shiny hair and tell you all about it.”

“Ripper.” Olivia’s voice was low and urgent. “I’m quite serious.”

“I know,” Rupert whispered back, their voices receding towards the door. Not quite far enough for Spike not to hear them talking about exactly what he’d thought they’d been talking about. Passing on the unwanted fruitcake yet again.

He leaned forward and turned the volume on the telly as loud as it would go.

*

Giles had a headache.

It wasn’t, to be fair, entirely due to the late-night programme that was currently threatening to blow out the tiny speaker on his tiny television set; certainly that wasn’t helping, but he’d been young once -- still was, part of him insisted -- and he’d been louder places. No, this headache was a complicated mélange of fear for his charge, eye strain from poring over faded texts, a lack of quality tea, a lack of quality sleep, and the utter collapse of what he’d intended to be a relaxing weekend with his friend-and-occasional-lover.

Really, the inane howler-monkey yowling of David Letterman was hardly anything.

He’d been lucky Olivia had even deigned to come visit a second time, after her last trip had been first interrupted by visitors, and then abruptly cut off when he’d decided that he could not, after all, leave Buffy to fight evil without his aid and -- he was vaguely embarrassed recalling it, even now -- leapt up from the couch mid-snog to gather his weaponry and dash out into peril, leaving her to secure her own taxi to the airport. He couldn’t even recall what story he’d concocted later to cover his flight, but it had been touch and go for a bit there whether Olivia would even accept his calls.

Things had started better this time. He’d ensured -- as subtly as was possible with American teens -- that everyone knew precisely what he was up to, and taken steps to clear both his schedule and his flat of unwanted disturbances. That first evening had been delightful.

Until they’d awoken.

He was actually quite proud of Olivia; she’d been a trouper through it all, falling in to assist despite her obvious horror at what was transpiring, despite not really understanding how Buffy and Giles and the youngsters figured into everything, or why there was a fanged vampire strolling about the flat. She’d pitched in, and she’d helped out, and he really couldn’t blame her for being a tad bit unhappy. He’d chosen the life of a watcher. All she’d chosen was an intimate friend and lover.

And she was right. He should never have let Xander leave without Spike.

He’d been too revolted at the time to even think about the implications, but the end result of his inattention was that Xander and Anya were off -- presumably, based on her remarkably crass sign language -- having sex, and in the meantime he and Olivia were saddled with a completely unwelcome house guest. Which -- he could not argue with her on this point -- meant they themselves were not having sex. Which was insupportable, seeing as she was the one with a non-refundable cross-Atlantic airplane ticket.

No wonder his head ached.

“He has to go,” Olivia whispered.

“Indeed he does.”

“I won’t--”

“No.” He brushed a thumb over her cheek. “Of course not.”

“I leave tomorrow.”

He kissed her then, Spike be damned. “I know, darling. This will soon be--”

The door opened right into his back.

“Giles?” The sound of Buffy’s voice made his knees weak. Of course she wasn’t dead. Of course she’d succeeded. Of course.

“Buffy.” He kissed Olivia on the forehead, swiftly, before the door opened all the way. “I take it you were successful?”

“Yeah,” she said with a shrug, slipping in the door. “Heads all splodey. I brought you pieces.”

“Of their heads?” Dear Lord.

“Of the box.”

“Ah.” There was a box?

“I figured you’d want them.” Buffy closed the door behind her, glaring over at the couch. “I see you’re having a fun night.”

“Indeed.” Giles sent Olivia an apologetic glance. “So, the Gentlemen have been defeated. And there is a box?”

Buffy sank into a stool. “Yeah. The box was in my dream. Ri-- it got broken, and I got my voice back. Screaming did the trick.” She poked listlessly at Giles’s spice rack. “Guess I’m a princess.”

There was a derisive snort from the couch.

“Really?’” Giles turned back to his desk. “Screaming was what did it?”

Buffy huffed out an exasperated sigh. “Duh. You’re the one who told me that.”

“Yes, but--” Giles cut himself off before he said out loud that he’d been, to put it mildly, winging it. “I’m so very glad.”

“Yeah, me too.” Buffy sighed. “Giles, do you have any chocolate?”

“Liquor is quicker,” came Spike’s voice from the sofa.

“Oh, shut up!” Buffy snapped over her shoulder. “God, why is Spike even here?”

“That’s rather what I was wondering,” Giles muttered, _sotto voce._

“Is everyone else okay?” Buffy turned to Giles seriously. “Willow? Xander?”

“Willow insisted she return to the dormitory. Xander--”

“Off getting ‘lots of orgasms,’ isn’t he?”

“God! Shut up, Spike!” Buffy frowned. “Wait, is he serious?”

Giles cursed the cruel fate that had doomed him to conversations like this. “Indeed. Xander is, er, elsewhere, presumably having.... quality time with--”

“Oh. My. God. He and Anya are… don’t they know there are, like, homicidal mimes out rampaging in the streets?”

“One would presume.”

“Who can think about sex at a time like this?”

Giles managed not to look at Olivia.

Buffy’s eyes narrowed anyhow. “I am going to pretend I don’t know what you’re thinking.”

“Well,” Giles said stiffly. “From your report, there are no longer, er, homicidal mimes out rampaging in the streets, as their heads have all exploded.”

“Yeah, I think I got some in my hair.”

“Also on your cheek,” Olivia volunteered, gesturing. “Just there.”

Buffy reached up a hand reflexively, stopping herself before actually touching the blob of blue goo. “Ugh. Giles, can I borrow a washcloth?”

“Of course.”

Olivia cleared her throat.

“Ah, yes.” Giles removed his glasses, so that he could avoid looking at Buffy’s face while he said what needed saying. “As mentioned, Xander has departed with Anya. However, he neglected to, er, make arrangements for Spike, who is supposed to be staying at his flat for the time being.”

“So? Spike can just stay here.”

“I have a guest.”

There was a long silence, and then the blur that was Buffy’s face shifted. “Oh, no. No, no, no. Giles, I can’t take Spike back to my dorm room!”

“I have a guest,” Giles repeated firmly, “who has traveled a long way and has a non-refundable, non-exchangeable cross-Atlantic plane ticket to return home tomorrow evening.”

Spike muttered something crass from the couch that Giles chose to ignore.

“Well, I have a pretty severe lack of neutered-vampire-containment-facilities,” Buffy grumbled. “Where am I supposed to put Spike?”

“You can stay here.” Giles put his glasses back on his face resolutely.

“Here.” Buffy’s voice was flat. “With you and… your guest?”

“Well, no. I had rather intended to leave.” 

That garnered a hum of pleased surprise from Olivia, which was itself not surprising, as he’d rather surprised himself with the statement. But it made a great deal of sense, and he warmed to his plan even as he laid it out.

“Olivia and I shall secure a suite at a nearby hotel. You can stay here. The bed in the guest room is made up, and of course there is the bathtub for--”

“Bugger that,” Spike called across the room.

“--Or you can secure him to the couch.” Giles took a deep breath, then brought out the heavy artillery. “Olivia has kindly replenished my supply of Du Rhône chocolates. You may…” He heaved another deep breath, steeling himself. “You may help yourself.”

Buffy paused in the tirade she’d been clearly about to deliver. “Are those the ones that taste like they were made out of condensed sin by Satan himself?”

“The very same.”

She wavered for a moment, then sighed. “Fine. I’ll vamp-sit.”

“Excellent.” He gave Olivia a subtle nod; she silently began to gather her things. Or the things they’d need for the night, in any case. Which really wasn’t much.

“Don’t I get a say in this?” Spike interjected.

“No!” Buffy snapped, not even turning around.

“We’ll just be going, then,” Giles said, opening the door.

“What, now?”

“Do remember to lock the door. The news had mention of some looting.” Giles ushered Olivia out into the courtyard.

“Wait, Giles--”

“Ah, yes. I almost forgot.” Giles paused halfway out the door, hand on the knob. “Perhaps, since you’re here, you could put my books away? Alphabetized by author, please. That would be A, B, C…”

“Giles, I know the alphabe--”

Giles resolutely closed the door on her protests. Protests that -- according to plan -- hadn’t quite made it as far as actually refusing the task. He’d known the subtle dig at her education would distract her long enough for them to escape, and could count on her innate sense of honour to force her to carry through with his request.

And it was only fair. He’d been looking forward to those chocolates.

*

Buffy stared at herself in the mirror, trying to see what it was about her that made her a magnet for all that was wrong in the romance department. Was it her nose? She’d always thought her nose was iffy, though Willow had assured her it was perky and cute. Did she have a badness-attracting nose? Or maybe it was her eyes. Maybe her eyes just screamed, “come hither, all ye jerks and liars!”

Because whatever it was about her, her nose or her face or just _her_ , just something about her, like the ‘80s song but totally in the wrong way -- whatever it was, it sucked.

She sighed and swiped away the last traces of Gentlemen-head-goo from her hands. There was just no getting around it. Riley was not at all what she’d believed.

The question was, what was he?

Commando gear, fancy weapons, so something military, probably unofficial, or plausibly-deniable. Black ops? Special police demon squad? Private militia? He seemed human, at least, if a little extra-strong. Whatever he was, based on what they’d deduced from Spike’s dubious account, he apparently was into weird demon experiments, torture, and whatever the heck had defanged Spike. Had that been done magically? Or was it some military techno-whatsis?

And could she ponder the possible secrets of Riley’s life long enough to ignore the real issue at hand?

She’d kissed him.

At the time, she’d been feeling generally moved. She’d been out to protect Sunnydale, and he’d been lending a hand in a nice-normal-guy way, silently breaking up a fight between two businessmen -- and okay, so she’d done the actual breaking-up via a broken wrist, but it had been kind of cute, and without being able to talk, she’d finally let go of her hesitations and kissed him, expecting it to be all Heathcliff-on-the-moors romantic.

And it had been… nice.

Kissing Riley had been totally nice. Really, really nice, and super nice, and--

Oh, who was she kidding? It had been _boring_.

She liked him! She so did. She thought he was nice, and smart, and nice, and he had really good arms, and he was nice, and he kissed like... cornflakes.

Nice cornflakes.

Buffy firmly ignored the fact that she had always hated cornflakes.

And -- okay, so it seemed she couldn’t ignore it -- if he was all secret-agent, mystery-demon-fighter-type, shouldn’t his kisses be all full of James-Bond mojo? Why did he kiss like -- Buffy’s brain stuttered to a halt trying to find a media equivalent for that kiss. Gilligan? Gomer Pyle? The prince in Spaceballs?

She’d wanted to die when she kissed Angel. She’d been deep into Parker, rat that he was. And god, Spike had -- Well, that didn’t count. The point was, she had high expectations for kisses. Kissing should be _something_ , should be a prelude to more, a promise of better, a hint of things to come.

She should want there to be more.

She really should.

She really, really should.

Why did the thought of _more_ with Riley just make her feel vaguely uncomfortable?

He reminded her of Owen, she thought suddenly. Owen, who’d been all starry-eyed over the danger of her life, who’d wanted to throw his fragile human body into Buffy’s superhuman fray. Who had wanted to be with Buffy just for the danger and the thrill. Owen would have been all over being a demon-hunting commando.

Buffy frowned at herself in the mirror. What had even happened to him? She vaguely remembered him still being around, maybe dating Cordelia for a week, then maybe Harmony? She’d set him aside, tried not to think about him, and it seemed she’d succeeded, because she couldn’t even remember if he’d been there at graduation. Or if he’d survived graduation.

Or if he’d enlisted in a paramilitary demon-hunting squad after graduation.

She sighed. It had been kind of funny when she and Willow and Xander used to joke about how they’d never have normal relationships, but it had stopped being funny a while ago now, and had become just depressing. Wasn’t graduation supposed to signify actually getting to move on? Becoming an adult, leaving all the inanities and cautionary tales of teenagerdom behind you?

A muffled thud from the living room interrupted her thoughts, and she sighed again.

Babysitting, too. Babysitting definitely belonged back in high school, not in her grown-up life.

She gave her cheek another scrub and tossed the washcloth in Giles’s hamper, grumbling to herself that it was his own damn fault if the damp thing soured. Him and his “replenished supply of chocolates.” She’d checked every one of his cupboards in the kitchen, and not a box to be found, not even at the back of his stash of tea. The liar. Yet another way in which her life was unfair. Sure, she could go buy a Hershey bar, but imported British chocolate was just… better.

“I hope you’ve taken care of those books like I asked you to,” she called out. “No slacking!”

“Slacking? Perish the thought!” came Spike’s voice from the living room.

Crap. He sounded way too happy. Something was definitely up.

And yes, as she returned to the living room she saw something was indeed up. Several feet up, in fact.

The something that was up was Giles’s books, which Spike had somehow managed, in the time she was in the bathroom cleaning up, to stack halfway to Giles’s ceiling, right in the center of the desk. This was no mean feat, given that Giles’s ceiling was twice as high as usual; there must have been chairs involved, possibly on top of the desk, and she had to hand it to Spike: he had not been slacking.

No, he had put serious, dedicated effort into being an asshole.

He was standing right next to the desk, undoubtedly grinning malevolently, but she wouldn’t look at him, just let her eyes travel up to the tip-top book.

“What the hell have you done?”

“You told me to straighten up Rupert’s books.” Spike ran a hand up the spines of the books he could reach. “I know. ‘Symmetrical book stacking. Just like the Philadelphia mass turbulence of 1947. No human being would stack books like--’”

“Don’t you dare quote Ghostbusters at me!” Buffy snapped. No. She was not going to look at him. She was not.

“I was actually in Philadelphia in 1947,” Spike went on. “The mass turbulence whatsis was quite the shindig. That Ramis fellow did his research--”

“I told you to alphabetize them!”

“They are alphabetized. Starts right here at A, and goes all the way up to--”

“They’re supposed to be on the shelves!” Buffy buried her face in her hands. “God, I am never going to get to sleep tonight.”

“Didn’t say anything to me about shelves,” Spike said softly, and she finally let herself look at his face. He was watching her intently, and she looked away quickly, her heart beating faster. For no good reason! None!

“Fix it,” she said shortly.

“And what do I get out of it? Not been offered any compensation for my labor. That’s slavery, you know.” His voice dropped low and insinuating. “Of course, if you did want to chain me up again, perhaps manhandle me a bit…”

Oh god. Yet another way in which life was unfair. Because while kissing Riley had left her unsure if she even wanted to try for more, all Spike had to do was suggest evil badness with his British-chocolate voice, and suddenly her whole body was tingling with evil badness. And she didn’t even like him! She hated him! How was that fair?

She took refuge in anger.

“Knock it off,” Buffy hissed, pretending her face wasn’t red.

Spike regarded her unreadably. “If you say so, pet." Then, with a wicked grin, he knocked the entire stack of books to the floor.

Buffy ducked to avoid the falling books. “What the hell, Spike!” She grabbed him by the lapels and gave him a good shake. “Some of those books are older than you!”

Spike’s arms suddenly went around her waist, clasping at the small of her back, caging her just a few inches away. “Made you look.”

Buffy froze. Oh god, his face was right there. Even if she looked off to the side, she couldn’t not see him. She had to look at Spike.

Looking at Spike was bad.

Looking at Spike up close, his British-chocolate lips just inches away, was badder than bad.

She steeled herself against the badness. “I look at you plenty. Usually while I’m punching you.”

“Haven’t punched me for days,” Spike growled. “Haven’t looked at me for days either.”

“God, what are you, twelve?” Why was she not breaking away from his grasp? Why was she just standing there?

He tugged her closer, inexorably, and oh. That was why she hadn’t broken away, because feeling his definitely-not-a-child body pressed up against hers sent a shiver all the way out to her fingertips. “Just wondering why you’ve been avoiding me, love.”

“I haven’t been….” Why, why, why was she licking her lips? “I’ve been busy. Remember the whole no-talking thing?”

“Don’t need to talk to look at a bloke.”

“I…” Buffy frowned, suddenly thinking back. “You weren’t here.”

“I was here.”

“No, _I_ was here. I walked in the door,  me and Willow, and Giles was there, and his girlfriend, and Xander, and Anya. You weren’t in the room. Why weren’t you in the room? I thought we still had you under house arrest.”

His jaw jutted out. “Was here.”

“Where were you, then?”

His mouth worked for a moment, and then he suddenly released her, turning away. “Upstairs.”

Buffy’s eyebrows went up. “Upstairs? In Giles’s bedroom? Giles chained you up in his bedroom, while his girlfriend was visiting?”

Spike sniffed. “Didn’t say I was chained.”

“So you were upstairs. And you’re mad I didn’t, what, go upstairs just to look at you?”

“Could have said hello.”

“You could have come downstairs if you wanted me to punch you in the nose.”

“Didn’t feel like it.” His voice was sullen now.

“You know what I think? I think _you_ were avoiding _me._ ”

Spike wheeled around, getting right up in her face again. “Not hardly!”

“Oh, definitely.” Buffy folded her arms, feeling defiant. “So what’s your problem?”

“Don’t got a problem. What’s _your_ problem?” He stepped closer.

Buffy tossed her hair, lifting her chin. “I don’t have a problem, either.”

“Well all right, then.” His eyes dropped to her lips.

“All  right.”

They stared at each other for a long moment, Buffy dizzily aware that she was panting with… something. Hatred. She was panting with hatred.

Finally, Spike sighed and looked away.

“Alphabetized on the shelves?” he asked dully.

“Yeah. That’s what… Yeah.”

Spike dropped to the ground in the middle of the scattered books, picking up the nearest tome and smoothing out the pages.

“Of course I’m avoiding you,” Buffy said suddenly, surprising even herself. “Every time I look at you, I think about… the spell. Which was really bad. It was bad for you, too, right? I mean, kissing and… kissing your mortal enemy. You were just as upset as I was, right?”

“Bloody right, I was,” Spike grumbled. “Ruin my reputation, it would, that ever got out.”

“So, I mean, having to remember….”

“Wasn’t bad, though.” He looked at her sidelong. “Was bad, but wasn’t _bad_ , right?”

Buffy heaved an aggravated sigh, scooching books around with her feet until she had a place she could sit.

“Oh, don’t get shy now, Slayer,” Spike chuckled. “Not now when we’re really talking.” He set a book off to the side. “Disgusting as it is to pay you a compliment, you’re a bloody good kisser.”

“Am I?” Buffy busied herself with her own books, ignoring the little pleased tingle his words conjured up. “You’re, um. You got the job done yourself.”

“That I did,” he agreed, giving her a significant look.

Before Spike could elaborate on that, she rushed on. “But, you know. It was mostly because we were in love. That’s why it felt…” _Amazing. Earth-shattering. British-chocolatey._  “...nice.”

“Kissing is kissing, Slayer,” Spike muttered, clearly disgruntled. “Don’t get granted a magical tongue just because you’re overcome with warm fuzzies.”

“Kissing Angel was better,” Buffy bit out. “Because we were really truly in love.” Though when it came down to it, she wasn’t totally sure she wasn’t lying. Kissing Angel had just been different from kissing Spike. Purer, somehow, but also… quieter. Not the same sort of thing at all.

“Yeah, well, Drusilla….” He sighed and kept on sorting books. “Not that it matters. Just saying, good kissing hasn’t a thing to do with love. Blood wants what it wants, no matter what our noggins say.”

Buffy didn’t really want to take that conversational gambit up, not with what her blood had apparently decided it wanted. Stupid blood. “Do you have a stack for D’s over there?”

He looked at her again, _that_ look, the one that said he knew just what she was thinking, but shrugged and nodded. “Pass it over then, Slayer.”

Buffy stacked books in silence for several minutes before her rebel blood took over her mouth again. “It’s just not fair.”

“What’s not fair, love?”

Buffy sighed and leaned back, staring up at Giles’s board-and-plaster ceiling, way up there. “It’s like whoever’s up there running things has decided I don’t ever get to have anything nice at all.” Spike made a noise that Buffy chose to interpret as encouraging, and she went on, earnestly. “It’s not enough that I’m basically expected to die any second. No, Buffy can’t even kiss a guy. Anyone Buffy kisses is going to turn out to be a bad guy. Angel’s all, oh, you deserve someone normal. Well, I went out and I found someone normal, and guess what? He’s not normal. He’s some kind of-- Well, he’s not normal. He’s like a wolf in normal’s clothing, except he’s not even a wolf, he’s a cornflake.”

“...You’re losing me here, Slayer. Who’s a cornflake?” Spike rested his elbows on his knees, sending Buffy a wry glance.

“Well, he’s not actually a cornflake. He just kisses like one.”

“Ah. So you’ve kissed this normal bloke?” Spike returned to sorting.

“Last night,” Buffy confessed, feeling oddly guilty. “But it was just… it wasn’t... . And then he turned out to be a bad guy anyhow. Because I kissed him. He’s a bad guy cornflake who isn’t normal at all. Because, oh no, Buffy can’t have kisses.” She looked over at Spike, distracted for a moment by his pursed lips, which looked as un-cornflakey as lips could look, but she shook herself and soldiered on. “Buffy can’t have sex. Any guy Buffy has sex with is going to turn evil and try to end the world, or they’re just an awful jerk to begin with.”

“Right. Noticed that.”

“I mean, Willow gets to have sex -- or she did when she had a boyfriend. Xander gets to have sex. Xander even gets to have kinky sex, apparently. Even Giles gets to have sex with his cross-Atlantic booty call. Who decided that I get to be the object lesson in 1950s moral virtue?” Buffy could feel her voice rising, getting faster and louder, but she didn’t care. The floodgates were well and truly open now. “Why don’t I get to have even a tiny crumb of joy, something nice in the middle of all the killing and the crying and the broken bones? Xander gets, like, ten orgasms a night according to Anya. Don’t I deserve at least one?”

“Had at least two, by my reckoning.” Spike’s voice was low and amused, and it sent a flush straight to Buffy’s cheeks, because--

“Those don’t count.”

“You didn’t enjoy them?” Spike frowned down at the volume in his hands, leaning over to set it on top of a different stack.

“I--” Buffy set her chin. This was it. This was why she’d avoided him for days. “It wasn’t real. What we felt under the spell wasn’t real.”

“Felt real to me,” he murmured.

“It was a spell.”

“There was a spell,” Spike agreed. “Doesn’t change what we did. You remember, right?”

Buffy fell silent. For all her talk of a forgetting spell, she never had asked Willow to try. She very definitely remembered.

She’d wanted to remember.

“Happened right there in that chair,” Spike said softly. “You were all admiring your shiny ring, and I got all lost in your shiny hair, breathing you in. Your watcher was whingeing about having to wait till dawn for his bloody cure, and you were about to show me whatall you’d found at the shops for the reception, but had to have us a snog first, didn’t we?”

Buffy’s mouth was suddenly dry.

“Except a snog wasn’t enough,” Spike continued silkily.  “You whispered in my ear that you couldn’t wait, and who was I to deny my lady? But you knew the watcher was listening and you couldn’t make a sound. Couldn’t let him know what we were doing. And so you kept on talking about the party mints and the sodding name cards, and all the while you were watching me with your big green eyes all trembling and wild, begging me to touch you.” Spike lifted up a book, scrutinizing the binding. “You were so hot for me didn’t even need to pop the button on those tight trousers, did I? Just gave you a good rub with my thumb, just there, and you were falling apart, right in the middle of tasting some bloody sweet.”

_Jordan almonds_ , Buffy thought dizzily. It had been Jordan almonds, she’d popped one in Spike’s mouth and then another in hers just as the wave had crested and she’d bit into the crunchy sweetness to keep from gasping, and then she’d kissed him, his lips and hers sugar-sweet and trembling.

“That was one. Couldn’t stop there, though,” Spike continued. “Not knowing how hot and wet you were. And so I undid your button and had at your zipper, didn’t I? Had to pull it down slow as treacle, though, so the watcher didn’t hear. One bloody tooth at a time. And you were talking about the bloody tulle circles when I finally had that zipper all the way down and I was able to slide my fingers inside and really touch you. God.” He paused for a moment, looking away. “You couldn’t stay quiet then, I had to kiss you just to cover up the sound, keep you from whimpering. And I had my fingers on you, all wet, and then in you. Remember?”

Oh god. She did remember, the glide of his fingers and the soft look in his eyes and the forbidden thrill of it all and the dizzy realization that she’d never understood before, the power or the pleasure. She nodded slowly, unable to lie to herself.

He sighed nostalgically. “That was two.”

Buffy heaved a trembling breath, setting her chin and glaring in Spike’s general direction, but she didn’t quite want to look at his face, not his lips nor his eyes nor his too-truthful lying mouth, and so she looked at his hands, precisely stacking yet another book.

His fingers were trembling.

She remembered, all right. Remembered sitting there, Spike’s cool forehead pressed against hers as she came down, and then his fingers tenderly fastening her back up. She’d managed to say something inane about ribbon, and then he’d sat back all smug and grinning, asking what other goodies she had in her bag for him, and under cover of the rustling plastic she’d leaned in close to his ear and whispered a promise, payback for later, and oh, he obviously remembered that too, the promise she hadn’t kept, because he was watching her sidelong, guarded, and resolve welled up in her and before she could talk herself out of it, she’d reached out and set her palm to his cheek, turning him to face her, and he leaned in to her touch and then his lips were on hers, urgent and wild, and he was falling back among the books and she was pressing him down, elbows on either side of his head, and then they broke at the same moment, heads pulling back and eyes staring, both shaking like earthquakes.

Spike looked like he had something to say, but then his eyes just narrowed and he slid his hand right down along her body, down for one slow, purposeful stroke right between her legs.

“Oh,” she sighed. It wasn’t supposed to feel like that. Not now. They weren’t in love, they didn’t even like each other, they hated each other, they-- She moaned as he stroked again, not able to look away from his face now, his face she’d been avoiding. How could his evil, evil eyes look so soft?

He grinned then, wild. “Care for another crumb of joy?” His voice was pure sin; he pressed his thumb in just the right place.

“Maybe just one,” Buffy whispered, feeling wild herself, wild with the unfairness of her entire life, wild with need and frustration and reckless desire.

“One, Slayer?”

“Oh, god. Two?”

“I’ll give you a whole bloody cake,” Spike growled, and then they were kissing again, lips and teeth, and she was straddling him, arching desperately into his touch.

He rolled them over, shoving the stacks of books aside, one hand buried in her hair while the other thumbed open the button of her pants, and he didn’t bother with slow or quiet this time, shoving his hand inside so the zipper growled open all at once, and Buffy moaned, letting her head fall back onto the tile for a moment, eyes crossing, because it didn’t just feel as good as before, it felt better, like before had just been a rehearsal and this was the real thing, and it was, it was real, and she had a promise to keep, a promise she wanted to keep, and so she set her hands to his belt buckle, fumbling with the tongue and the bits of metal until it was open, and then the button, and then his zipper was the one that was loud as she reached in and took him in her hand.

He swore into her throat, laughing brokenly, and Buffy seized the opening and flipped him over, knocking over another pile of books but not caring. She hiked up her knee to give his wicked fingers better access, settling against his shoulder and watching her hand slowly glide up and down the length of him, weirdly fascinated by the sight.

Spike curled up to nibble delicately at her bicep, fingers falling into a matching rhythm, and then his lips traveled to hers and they kissed open-mouthed, long lazy slides of tongue, and Buffy’s world narrowed to nothing but the wet pleasure of it all, tongues and fingers and hands and oh god what was he doing? She threw her head back and gasped harshly as he pushed her up over the edge, every muscle in her body tensing and quivering, tears springing to her eyes from the power.

“There, Slayer,” Spike murmured in her ear, gently stroking her as she quivered with release.

She let him roll her over onto her back, sinking into relaxation, though she kept her hand on him, slow caresses to make him gasp as he lifted her hips to pull her pants and underwear down past her knees as far as her boots would allow; she was vaguely aware that there was a book digging into her arm, but she couldn’t care much, not when Spike was unwrapping her, eyes alight like Christmas morning, and when he tugged her shirt up she lifted her arms overhead, because why not? Why shouldn’t she get to have all of it, after the night she’d had? Exploding heads and dripping hearts and backstabbing cornflakes. She deserved to feel wonderful. And so she stretched languorously, the tile cool against her bare skin, surrounded by the smell of old paper and her own arousal, and let herself feel.

Spike tossed her shirt away and moved until he was kneeling on her half-down pants, eyes hot, and then he set his palms to the inside of her thighs and pressed them wide, and just knelt there for a long moment, looking down at her.

She looked back, now that she could, now that they’d given in to everything they’d been avoiding, and she smiled.

“Take off your shirt,” she said, and he did, skinning it over his head and flinging it off somewhere, so he was kneeling before her, bare down to where his cock jutted from his open jeans, naked skin and naked eyes gazing at her like she was a miracle, and then he reached out and stroked one hand down, cheek to throat to breast to belly to thigh, and then both hands, mapping her out, and then he slid them both back up to her breasts.

“Wanted to see these,” he growled as his thumbs circled her nipples.

“I wanted you to,” Buffy whispered. “When we were in love.”

His eyes narrowed. “Meaning now you don’t?”

She set her hands over his, urging him on. “Meaning don’t stop.”

He leaned down to kiss her then, cool tongue in her mouth and then tender nibbling kisses along her jaw and down her throat, and his hands slid out from under hers and around to her back, lifting her up, and she scooped her own breast up to meet his lips and his tongue, thumb brushing his cheek as he suckled on her nipple, and she sank into the caresses for a while, letting him pleasure her, but the languor started to fade, leaving her hungry, wanting, and she reached out and grabbed the ends of his dangling belt, yanking to roll Spike sideways so she could take command.

He crashed into the wall, and Buffy barely managed to catch a huge object as it plummeted towards her head.

She held it in her hands, staring at it stupidly. That wood-and-glass thing Giles had on the wall, the one with the dials and stuff. She’d never really looked at it too closely before. What was it?

While she was contemplating the thing, Spike recovered from her coup, sitting up and pulling her into his lap to fondle her breasts from behind.

“Do you know what this is?” Buffy asked, arching into his touch.

“Don’t bloody care, do I?” he replied, pressing kisses along the angle of her trapezius, dipping his tongue into the dent where her bicep began. “Drop it, love.”

“It’ll break,” Buffy sighed, letting her head fall back against him.

He chuckled into her shoulder and reached around, running his hand in a long hard stroke through her wetness. “Let it break.”

He stroked her again, and again, harder, faster, and Buffy barely managed to clutch the thing to her chest to keep it from falling, cold glass against one breast while Spike played with the other, and she heard herself grunting in time with Spike’s strokes, a tiny bit of her embarrassed at the primal sounds but most of her not caring one bit. She snaked her free arm up around his neck and thrust her hips against his hand, feeling his hard cock behind her, skin to skin, and oh, he started to thrust his fingers inside her, hard, alternating with strokes along her, and her grunts turned to cries and then to hoarse shouts, and when she came she keened high and long, feeling herself flutter against his hand, little shocks radiating out to the very ends of her hair, it seemed.

Spike’s arms wrapped tight around her waist and he buried his forehead in the nape of her neck. “Bloody hell, Slayer,” he whispered, sounding as shattered as she was.

She stared across the room at the familiar Gilesy decorations, the chest of weapons, his desk with the fancy glass lamp, the still-scattered books, and wondered why they looked like an alien landscape.

“So,” Spike finally said, voice desperately casual. “That crumb good enough for you?”

“That was more than a crumb. That was a whole slice.” She sighed contentedly.

“German chocolate? Or raspberry filled?”

Buffy laughed at the reminder of their wedding cake plans. “That was the top layer. Devil’s food with Nutella filling.”

“Mmm,” Spike rumbled into her shoulder blade. “Well, you know what they say about having your cake--”

“Oh!” Buffy wriggled out of Spike’s grasp, struggling to her feet despite her legs feeling like spaghetti noodles. “I have to hang this back up!”

“Bloody hell. Let a fellow finish, would you, Slayer?” He stroked her calves as she stepped around him, puzzling over the wood-thingy’s hanger.

“I might let you finish,” she said archly as she settled thingy onto its nail, “if you’re very, very good.” Crap, the glass looked all fuzzy. Fuzzy with what looked like sweat. Sweat in what looked like a perfect impression of her boob. Whoops.

His hands inched up to her thighs. “Rather be bad.”

“But not _bad_ ,” Buffy teased, resolving with a shrug to break out the Windex before Giles got home.

Spike muttered something under his breath, and the next thing Buffy knew his hands were on her hips, turning her, and her back was against the wall and then her thigh was on his shoulder as he knelt before her and then his tongue was on her, probing, and she laughed in surprise and then again from the pleasure, like steam from a pressure cooker, and then again when she figured out where he’d been going with his whole “having your cake” line, which was cheesy as hell and definitely lowbrow, but when one had a vampire’s tongue all up in one’s crotch it was a fair bet that all pretensions to class had gone right out the window.

She was all done with pretending tonight, anyhow. She kicked off her boot so she could kick her pants the rest of the way off as well and hooked her ankle around his back and sank her fingers into his hair, breaking the gelled waves up into softer curls, and let her voice go, laughing and sighing and telling him which bits she liked best, until she was halfway there again and a particularly clever twist of his tongue sent her jerking into the wood-and-glass thingamabob, threatening to knock it off the wall again. She barely managed to steady it with one hand while the other still urged Spike on.

“Stop, Spike!” she gasped.

He stopped, glaring up her body. “You want me to stop? Now?”

“No,” she reassured him. “I don’t want you to stop.”

“Well, then.” He gave her another good hard lick.

“No, stop!”

He sat back on his heels, glaring again. “Make up your bloody mind, Slayer.”

“I don’t want you to stop… doing that.”

“All right.” He rubbed his nose in her crotch, inhaling deeply, then started in again.

“But we can’t break the… the thing!”

Spike laughed, but didn’t stop. “It’s a barometer, love.” His voice rumbled up through her, making her instantly decide the word barometer was the best word ever. Not that she knew what a barometer was. It didn’t matter.

“Whatever, we can’t break it! Giles will kill me!” She steadied it again.

Spike growled into her, the vibrations startling a gasp from her throat, and then he scooped his arms under her thighs, picking her up and whirling her until her back was flat on something cool and smooth, and she was looking up at the high, high ceiling.

“Spike! We can’t break Giles’s desk, either!”

He loomed over her suddenly, grinning. “Not going to break it, love. Just going to fuck you on it.”

“Oh,” she said lamely, and then he disappeared from view and then “Oh! Oh god!” Her voice was echoing off the ceiling but she didn’t care, his mouth was on her again, except more so, and god, god, god, and she threw her head back and noticed that Giles’s glass lamp was teetering on the edge of the desk, and she managed to grab the base just before it fell and then she was holding on to it for dear life, grateful that her legs had been relieved of the hard work of keeping her upright, because she was all made of noodles now, or those fiberoptic strings, like that ‘70s lamp her mom had owned once, all floppy and loose with brilliant colored lights all at the ends so the whole thing looked like an exploding firework, and that’s what she was now, fireworks blowing up in the night sky, her voice a sonic boom in her own ears, and she stared at Giles’s lamp in her hands as she came down.

For Pete’s sake, did Giles own anything that _wasn’t_ breakable?

Spike stood then, eyes like firecrackers, and Buffy squeaked, holding the lamp up like a shield.

“What the hell, Slayer?” Spike’s voice came from the other side of the glass lampshade, seething. His hands were back on her, fingers pumping into her rhythmically; she tilted her hips to his thrusts eagerly, wanting more, but she managed to keep the lamp still; it barely quivered..

“We can’t -- oh! -- break Giles’s lamp!” Buffy gasped out.

His fingers drove deeper. “And what am I to do about it, then?”

“Put it down!” Buffy moaned, her back arching. “Just on the ground somewhere.”

Spike growled, his fingers withdrawing, and then the lamp was out of her hands, and she heard a glassy chink as Spike set it carefully to one side, and then he was over her again, hands tucked in the crooks of her knees, pushing them up and out and then he was pushing in and in and she tossed her head back, feeling her hair sliding down on the other side of Giles’s desk, and she reached out with her own hands, lamp-free, and clutched at his amazing ass and urged him deeper and oh god he felt good, he had her knees shoved almost to her armpits and she was shouting now, she heard what had to be her own voice cursing him and she pounded her fists on his back and then she was coming again, the bastard, how dare he! How dare he! It wasn’t fair! She clutched at him and fought him and wrapped herself around him, eyes filling with tears, and then he gave her the sweetest of kisses, a kiss that would have been chaste if he hadn’t been pumping hard into her, and she curled in to him tight and oh god, she was screaming, except it wasn’t her voice, her voice had never been this, all primal and desperately victorious, and he swore into her collarbone and drove harder, deeper, harder, and then he stiffened over her and collapsed, lips sweetly sipping tears from her cheeks as they melted together into a puddle of her sweat.

“Oh,” she whispered when she could make sounds again. “Oh.”

_Oh, god._ What had she done?

*

Oh god. What had he done?

He’d imagined it, of course, the slayer lying before him, limp, boneless -- but the general idea for years had been that her limp bonelessness would be from blood loss and imminent death, and all right, perhaps there had been a sexual component as well, he’d tossed off to that vision more than once, but this was not at all what he’d ever wanted.

Except that it felt like all he’d ever wanted, which was just wrong.

Even now, reeling from his release, he wanted to gather up the slayer into his arms and soothe away her trembles and stroke her glorious hair and kiss her and god, then shag her again, again and again, until he’d learned all the cadences of her voice and traced the treasure map of her body, until he knew her body like his own, and then again, and again, until she was like his favorite book of poetry, soft in his hands, every syllable already there in his head but still holding a new revelation every time he opened it, and he knew somehow he would never tire of her, that he could spend the next century with this woman and his heart would still threaten to start beating every time he looked at her, and _bugger_ he was doomed.

Absolutely doomed.

If he was lucky, she’d just stake him right now.

She didn’t seem like she wanted to stake him, though; her hands were stroking down his back, hesitantly, like she was petting a cactus, and when his lips moved from her cheeks to her mouth, she kissed him warmly, but her eyes were open, slightly glazed, and when he pushed back so he could see her face, hands on the wood on either side of her hair, she looked at him like she had never seen him before.

“What did we just do?” she whispered.

He kissed the tremble from her lips. “What we’ve wanted to do for years,” he whispered back, not afraid to admit it now. “I knew you’d be glorious.”

“I haven’t wanted this for years,” she said, even as her hands drifted down to his arse, as if she didn’t want him to withdraw. Which was fine by him, as he didn’t want to withdraw, didn’t want to put a period to things, didn’t want to give up the comforting warmth he was buried in.

“Haven’t you?” he said, bringing a thumb up to brush her cheek. “You’ve never once imagined this?”

“The spell--”

“Before the spell.”

She glanced away, then her eyes came back to his, as piercing as any stake. “Sometimes,” she said, hushed, as if she were in the confessional box. “I sometimes had… dreams.”

“Dreams of me?” When she nodded, he bent down, lips brushing against her ear. “Dreams of fucking me?”

She nodded again, her cheek brushing his, and he pressed closer, until he could feel her breasts against him, nipples hard and quivering. “What about when you were awake?” he coaxed. “Did you ever just imagine?” He swallowed, but he was in too deep to hold back now. “Because I did. I’d lie in bed and think about what it would be like.”

She bit her lip, and then nodded, less hesitant now, as if she too was in too deep. “Sometimes. I would… I would think about it.” She brought her lips to his ears, as if telling a secret. “About us.”

He sighed, somehow relieved. “And was it as good as your dreams? As good as how you imagined?”

“Better,” she said shyly.

He pushed back again, until he was standing, still inside her, one hand on her quivering belly, the other dragging out a lock of hair, arranging it between her perfect pink breasts. “And do you want me to fuck you again?”

She looked up at him, green eyes deep and troubled as the ocean in a storm. “Yes.”

Instead of responding with words, Spike took hold of Buffy’s hip with one hand, holding her close -- god, he was getting hard again already! -- as he leaned over, rummaging in the watcher’s top drawer with the other hand. If he wasn’t mistaken -- there! Bloody fool was predictable as the tides. He set his spoils on the desk, opening the box and choosing the perfect poison.

Buffy had clearly also realized he was about ready for another go; her face was still tangled up in conflict, but she was already hitching her hips subtly against his, eyes warily gazing up at him  even as her breath quickened, even as she opened to him.

He looked down at her, somehow even more breathless than usual, and tenderly tucked the chocolate in her mouth.

Her eyes rolled back in her head; she moaned around her mouthful.

“Condensed sin,” Spike said softly, and yeah, the look on her face and the sound of her ecstasy had done it, he was hard as nails again, but he wasn’t going to rush it, not this time, and so he just pushed a little deeper and stayed buried in her while he selected another chocolate.

“How did you know--?” Buffy hooked her ankles behind his back, her strong thighs clenching.

“Where the watcher keeps his sweets? Of course they’re at the back of his top desk drawer. Near to hand, carefully camouflaged. You’d not believe what a gentleman keeps hidden behind his water bill.” And he bent forward to kiss her damp forehead as he fed her the next bon-bon. “Bottom drawer is where one keeps the good whiskey.”

This time he let his fingers linger on her lips, stroking as she nibbled the chocolate away bit by bit, and when the chocolate was gone she nibbled at his fingertips, eyes slumbrous and unfocused, and then she reached out and planted her hands on his arse again, pulling him yet deeper, all her strength behind it, and she smiled.

“More,” she said.

“I’ll give you more,” he crooned, and he watched her and she watched him as he took her leg, running his hand up the back until it was stretched up, the slayer’s painted toes pointing nearly at the ceiling, and he kissed the side of her calf and then slowly tilted it across his body, gently twisting her, his other hand helping her along until she had rolled, her belly and breasts on the wood desktop and her spine curving before him, his cock still buried in her. The sweet friction nearly blinded him.

She laughed, deep and throaty, looking over her shoulder. “What the heck, Spike?”

“You have bonbons to enjoy,” he said silkily, sliding the box forward until it was beside her shoulder. “You earned those chocolates, love. You should savour them.”

Buffy crossed her arms in front of her, resting on her elbows, making a show of picking out another chocolate. “And what are you going to do?” Her voice was truffle-dark and rich, just a trifle hoarse. It was the most incredible thing he’d heard in a century.

“I am going to savour fucking you while you savour your chocolates,” he said, running his finger down each bump of her spine, until he could grasp her hips again, fingers curving around between her hipbones and the wood, and he couldn’t wait any longer; he withdrew, slowly, and then thrust back in, even more slowly, dizzy with how hot and wet she was, how perfectly she fit him.

Her dangling legs quivered, the trousers still hanging from one ankle hissing across the tile, and she moaned again around a mouthful of chocolate as he moved in her.

“Like that, do you?”

She cast him a sly glance over her shoulder. “Absolutely. These chocolates are the best ever.”

He slowed down even more, withdrawing as slowly as he could bear, and then thrusting in hard and fast. She gasped, tilting her hips to him. “Have another.”

“Yes,” she gasped. “I think -- oh god -- I need to have a lot more.”

“More, you said?” He thrust into her hard again.

“God, more.” She arched her back, both hands curling around the edge of the desk, and thrust her hips back to meet him. “Faster.”

Spike swore and let go, driving into her, and he curved one hand around her hip until he could slide it into her curls, finding the hard little nub all slick and throbbing, and he flicked and pressed and toyed with it, Buffy’s hoarse cries poetry in his ears, until she was convulsing round him, screaming out her pleasure, and he paused for just a moment to savor her clenching around him, and then the next thing he knew one of her feet had curled up and somehow kicked him in the chest, and he was staggering backwards, falling on his arse in the middle of the books on the floor.

He was bereft for a moment, and then blindingly furious, still painfully aroused, and then he looked at Buffy and his anger subsided into anticipation.

She had slid off the desk and turned, leaning against the edge of the wood top, her legs slightly spread so he could see her all pink and dripping and swollen, and as he watched she plucked another chocolate out of the box and dragged it slowly down her chest, leaving a trail of melted chocolate behind it.

“These really are the best chocolates,” she said airily.

“So you mentioned,” Spike gasped out, leaning back on his elbows.

She circled the chocolate around one nipple. “Have you tried them?”

“Not recently.”

“You really, really should.” She took a nibble out of the softened chocolate, her free hand casually removing her boot and the dangling trousers until she was bare head to toe.

“Perhaps you could come give me a taste, love.”

“Perhaps I shall.” And she sauntered towards him, tossing her hair, until she was standing astride him, looking disdainfully down her nose, and then she sank down and down until her knees were on either side of his hips, and she reached down and he reached up and together they fit his cock to her until he was inside again, deeper than deep, and then he curled up and ran his tongue around her nipple, licking off the chocolate, and then running his tongue in long strokes across her chest, and then she popped the chocolate into her mouth and dragged him up for a kiss, the chocolate melting on her tongue as she stroked it against his, and god it was torture, slow torture, but then she pressed him back among the books and began to rise and fall above him, strong thighs clenching, and he curved his fingers around her arse and pumped up into her, letting her set the pace as he stroked and thrust and tried to keep up as best he could, until she was throwing her head back and yelling and he watched her, transfixed, a single moment of clarity before his own orgasm took him and he, too, was shaking like the apocalypse had come and gone.

She planted her hands on his chest to support herself, sweaty hair falling in her face as she panted.

“Wow,” she said at last.

“Yeah,” he agreed.

And then she sat up and looked around. “We haven’t put the books away,” she mused.

“That we have not.”

“We should probably do that.”

“If we must.”

And then she lay down on top of him, cheek pillowed on his chest, legs stretched out on either side of his. “Don’t wanna.”

He stroked her hair, staring up at the ceiling. “Nor do I, love.”

He stroked and stroked, gradually realizing that she had fallen asleep, her even breaths warming his shoulder, and still he stroked her hair and her back, memorizing every strand, every slight flaw in her skin, the mole just under her shoulder blade, the ridges of old battle scars, the softness of her skin in between, all of it perfection, poetry written in Braille.

She didn’t sleep long. She woke with a bit of a start, followed by a cautious stillness, and finally a resigned sigh as she lifted her head to look him in the eye.

“Morning, Sunshine,” he murmured.

“Is it morning?”

“No.” Though it felt like it, the sudden brightness and the pulse of danger and the knowledge that the light held his death.

Her face grew thoughtful. “This is weird.”

“Morning-after regrets?”

She rolled her eyes. “I’ve had regrettable sex before, Spike. No, it’s….” She blushed faintly, glancing away. “I’ve never, um, woken up with a guy before.”

“Ah.” He tilted his head up for a kiss; something sang inside him when she leaned in to meet him. “How do you find it?” he whispered into her lips.

“Kinda nice,” she whispered back, the ghost of a laugh shaking through her chest.

“Can make it _very_ nice,” he purred, curving his hand around her behind.

“How nice?”

“Nice enough to make you scream.” He rolled her over, shoving more books aside to make space for her.

She narrowed her eyes and added a little strength, so that they kept rolling. “Maybe I should make you scream.”

“God, please,” he said, and then she was kissing him and sliding over him, both of them still damp with her sweat, and _now_ , she whispered, _fuck me now_ and he was inside her glorious heat again, nothing soft or subtle, just pounding and driving and then she was atop him again, lacing her fingers in his, swirling her hips and taking him deeper, deeper, and oh god, he was screaming, they were both screaming, until they were collapsed together in a heap among the still-unsorted books.

“Good morning,” she laughed as they cuddled together.

“Bloody right, it’s a good morning.”

She sighed then, rolling off to the side and propping her head on his hand. “We really do need to clean up. I promised Giles.”

“You didn’t actually promise,” Spike pointed out.

She slapped his chest. “We’re doing it anyway.”

“Right, then.” Spike rolled towards Buffy, reaching across her for a book as he kissed her shoulder.

“First things first,” she said briskly, and sat up before he could kiss her more. “We need to get ourselves cleaned up.”

“Ah, bathtime?” He raised his eyebrows, putting his hands behind his head. “You can scrub my back.”

“Washcloths,” she said firmly. “We don’t have much time.” She stood and matter-of-factly proffered her hand; he took it solemnly, letting her help him to his feet.

Even washcloths had potential, but after he’d thoroughly proven to her the sensual possibilities of wet terrycloth, she put her foot down and made sure they got actually clean. She tossed their pile of damp washcloths and towels into Giles’s wicker hamper, staring at the thing for a long moment before she sighed and dragged it out to his washer, stuffing the whole pile of damp towels in and starting the load. Spike tagged along, thoroughly enjoying the sight of the naked slayer being all domestic-goddessy. She was like the whole Greek pantheon rolled into one, he mused, Athena and Aphrodite and a touch of Hestia and more than a touch of Hera, with the power of Zeus to boot.

Once the washer was swishing away, she turned and looked at Spike speculatively. “How fast can you alphabetize?”

“How long did it take me to build that tower?” he countered.

“Fair point.” She brushed her hair out of her face. “Was just thinking I had a promise to keep.”

“Well, yeah. All you’ve been talking about all night, the bloody books.”

“Not that promise,” she said sweetly, and then she took him by the shoulders and turned him until his arse was right up against the vibrating washer. “This promise.”

She started to kiss her way down along his chest.

“Oh. Right,” Spike said happily, letting his eyes drift closed. “That promise. Thought that didn’t count.”

She chuckled into his belly. “I changed my mind.” And then she took him into her mouth.

“That,” he said faintly, “is entirely your prerogative. You’re the slayer.”

He surrendered to his fate.

*

Giles was filled with good humour when they returned to his flat. Olivia had very much enjoyed the hotel he had chosen -- excellent room service, Egyptian cotton sheets, and a discreet and accommodating staff -- and had further been apparently quite impressed with the fact that Giles was himself something of a superhero, or at least superhero-adjacent, and not -- as she’d confessed she had occasionally wondered -- a washed up former punk with a penchant for socializing with teenagers.

She’d been very expressive, in fact. Giles wondered if this was a common perk for superhero mentors, if Professor Xavier were even half as lucky as he.

All in all, a successful visit, though something in Olivia’s eyes told him she was still somewhat concerned. It was all well and good to be lovers in the immediate aftermath of the deadly scourge, but she had to be wondering just how often deadly scourges came his way, and how likely she was to fall victim to the next. Which he could not help but admit to be a legitimate concern.

Regardless, today they were together, and still had ample time to prepare for her flight; he gave her a swift kiss as he opened the door to his flat.

What he saw inside brought him up short.

“My word,” he breathed, unable to contain his shock.

Buffy looked up from the stool where she’d been sitting, poking at a cup of tea. “What took you so long?”

Giles looked at his shelves, full of books that seemed to all be in the right place; at the glisteningly-clean room, full of the aroma of his scented candles; he also looked at the bin, which tragically did hold his empty Du Rhône box, but he supposed it was a small price to pay for a clean flat.

Though upon his second glance, he did notice that the cleaning had been spotty. For example, his barometer gleamed as if it were brand new, as did his glass lamp; however, he could see a thin layer of dust atop the frame of his family-heirloom indenture contract, and the banister to his loft could have used a good dusting. Ah, well. Good enough for an American teenager, he supposed.

“Have a good night, Ripper?” Spike called out from the sofa, where he was watching _The 700 Club_ , snickering.

“Indeed,” Giles said repressingly, then adjusted his glasses to take a closer look. “Why, you even polished my desk! Lemon oil?”

Buffy shrugged, looking at her mug. “Yeah, I, uh, I made Spike do that.”

“Indeed,” Spike said, parroting Giles’s tones from a moment before in a most irritating way. “ _Buffed_ it up proper, I did. Took my time, did a good thorough job. You know what the secret is? Really putting your back into it, and then using long, hard strokes. You have to take your time, really lubricate--”

“So, Giles!” Buffy’s voice was high; poor girl likely needed some sleep. “I really, really have to get back to my dorm. Those laundry rooms really fill up fast. You know how it is.”

“Oh, yes. Yes, of course.” Poor girl. She really did need to get out more. Though he supposed that would mean even less sleep…. “Have you, er, heard from Xander?” Giles shared a speaking glance with Olivia as he prepared to boil water for tea.

“Not a word,” Buffy said blithely. “But I’m sure he’ll be around this evening. I mean, they have to come up for air eventually.”

“And if they don’t, no great loss,” Spike muttered from the sofa.

“Shut up, Spike,” Buffy said wearily, gathering her things.

Oddly, Spike shut up, as if she’d somehow managed to finally impress upon him who was in charge. Which he supposed he should have expected, after all.

Buffy really was quite gifted.

*

Spike didn’t know why, but when Buffy went out the door he followed her, like a puppy, or a puppet, or the pathetic excuse for a besotted vampire that he was.

She stopped just barely out into the sunlight. “What do you want?”

His back stiffened instinctively. “Not a bloody thing from you,” he snorted.

She turned and looked at him then, her eyes cutting straight through his lies. “Really.”

“Too bloody right.” Bravado was all he had; he stood before the closed door, chest puffed out as if daring her to stake him. “Don’t need your pity.”

“And who said I pitied you?”

“Despise me, don’t you? Same bloody thing, just with a little garnish of hatred.”

Buffy looked away then, down at the stones of the courtyard. “I don’t hate you,” she said softly.

He clenched his jaw against the truth, but it came out anyhow. “Don’t hate you either.”

She rubbed a hand over her face then, eyes weary from more than sleeplessness. “I don’t know what to do,” she admitted.

He shifted from foot to foot, watching her, because he couldn’t reach out to her. God, how her hair shone.

And then she turned, stepping back into the shadows with him, standing just before him, the sunlit courtyard limning her with a halo. “We’ll talk,” she said softly. “We’ll figure this out. Because I can’t… I’m the slayer.”

“That you are, love,” Spike agreed, reaching out to stroke her hair now that he could. It burned.

And then she took another step, the last step, and she was kissing him again, her mouth hot, her hands firm on his cheeks, and he kissed her back with everything that was in him, knowing that she was the sun, knowing he would immolate himself on her, and not caring. He was doomed.

And then she turned and ran.

*

She took refuge in her laundry.

Showered and dressed in fresh clothes, her clothing from the night before tumbling in sudsy water, it almost seemed like it had been a dream, like she’d just gone straight from the clock tower and the scream and the heads exploding straight to her sunny dorm room, like nothing else had happened, like nothing at all had changed.

Except everything had changed, and she couldn’t pretend nothing had happened. Her whole body was still shouting at her, every little twinge proclaiming just what she’d spent the night doing; she could feel it in her walk, even, and she imagined everyone around could see it, too, that when she walked down the hall with her basket of lights-and-delicates she might as well have a neon sign over her head proclaiming her shame, or a loudspeaker brassily shouting out that she, Buffy Summers, had been all sweaty and horizontal (along with a little extra-naughty vertical) with an evil vampire, albeit a defanged one.

Though she felt a lot less shame than she felt she should feel. Possibly because she just felt so darn good, like a good third of her troubles had leached away, like she’d Shouted them out and they were gone like yesterday’s coffee stains, even though she knew she actually had just as many troubles as before.

Plus one new one. Spike was definitely trouble. Trouble squared, even.

The real problem was, he wasn’t just a vampire to her. Not now. He’d turned into a person -- or he’d been a person all along, and he’d just let her see it -- and now she couldn’t unsee it. She couldn’t forget the secrets he’d revealed, the softness and the vulnerability that he covered up with swagger and bravado, the inexplicable generosity he’d shown when they were all bare to each other, body and… not soul,  he didn’t have a soul, but whatever made up his _self_ , whatever made him Spike. Whatever that was, he’d opened it up to her, she’d truly seen him at last, and they’d laughed and sighed and teased and talked and come together, and it had become something more. And she wanted more still.

God, Giles really was going to kill her.

It had been hard to leave Spike standing outside Giles’s apartment, but she couldn’t stay, she had to think things through, and so she’d fled, heading back to her normal life, the normal life that was a mask over her real life, the normal life that wasn’t really normal at all.

When she’d returned to her room, a pajama-clad Willow had grinned at her knowingly. “And just where have _you_ been all night?”

_Having lots of fantastic sex with Spike._ “Just at Giles’s. He, um, had some stuff for me to do.”

“Oh.” Willow had seemed disappointed and a little confused. “I thought maybe, you know, after all the ookiness had been taken care of, maybe you and Riley had been hanging out. Maybe even making with the smoochies?”

_Oh, I was making with something. Just with Spike, not fakeazoid-Riley._ “Why would you think that?”

“Well, um. You’re kind of glowing.”

“Uh, really?” Buffy had almost confessed that yes, she had kissed Riley, except that she’d been sure that if she said word one about his disappointing cornflake-kiss, she’d start to spill about other things, chocolatey things, everything she had done with Spike, everything that was actually making her glow, and she didn’t know how Willow would take the news. “I wasn’t hanging out with Riley.”

“Oh.”

“What about you? You’re looking almost… well, kind of glowy, too.” Buffy had managed not to say that what Willow looked was “not miserable for a change” but there was actually something about her. Like the 80’s song, the way it was supposed to be.

“No smoochies here!” Willow had squeaked. “I wasn’t having any smoochies!”

“I didn’t think you were,” Buffy laughed wryly. “I mean, if you’d found a new guy you’d have told me, right?” _Like I would totally tell you about my new guy, if he weren’t Spike._

“Of course I would!” Willow had picked up a pillow from her bed, hugging it tightly. “I mean, um. Unless, you know, I wanted to keep it to myself for a bit. That would be okay too, right? Just to have a special secret for a little while?”

_Or a terrible secret._ “Well, yeah. Sometimes, when something’s new, and confusing, and, um, maybe something people might get all judgey about…. You don’t ever have to tell me anything. I mean, it’s not like high school, where everyone knew who was kissing who under the bleachers. We’re adults now. We can have… privacy.”

“Adults get judgey, too,” Willow had said softly.

“Well, I won’t,” Buffy had replied stoutly. “I promise not to judge, no matter who you bring in that door. This room is a no-judgement zone.” She’d shrugged, hoping it came across as casual, not desperate for a little reciprocal-non-judginess. “Possibly a poor-judgement zone as well, given my track record.”

Willow had laughed at that. “Oh, you’ll find someone who fits you right. Maybe Riley?”

“Maybe.” She might still give Riley a chance. Maybe they could work around the commando thing, and she could teach him how to kiss like condensed sin.

_Or maybe not._ She had a feeling that wasn’t something that could be taught, and even if so, how long would it take to teach it? How many cornflake-kisses would one have to go through to get to the chocolate?

The dryer dinged, and Buffy gathered up her laundry.

She was folding it, still thinking, when there was a knock on her door, and she turned to find Riley filling the doorway.

"Hi." He sounded perfectly normal, looking at her with a weird kind of abashed confidence. Like he knew he had some ‘splaining to do, but he also knew that in the end he’d come out on top, get just what he wanted. Like he had nothing really to lose.

Buffy looked at him, feeling… really not much of anything at all. "Hi."

He came in uninvited -- advantage to the not-vampire -- and sat on Willow’s bed. "Well,” he said heavily. “I guess we have to talk." And it probably wasn’t fair, but Buffy suddenly resented it, the way he’d apparently decided he was in charge of things, that he got to choose when they needed to talk. Like that one lame, disappointing kiss gave him property rights.

Well, okay then. Buffy had some things to say, too. And so she sat across from him.

"I guess we do,” she said quietly.

And silence fell.

As the silence stretched on, Buffy felt her patience stretching too, wearing thin, like a balloon blown too full and ready to pop. How was _this_ fair? She knew what he had to say -- not the specifics, maybe, but close enough -- and she knew there were two ways things could go from there. Either he was going to tell her that his secret demon-fighting commando life meant they shouldn’t have a relationship, or he was going to tell her that his secret demon-fighting commando life meant that they absolutely should have a relationship. Both of them amounted to the same thing as what she’d gotten from Angel in the end: someone telling her what she wanted without listening to what she wanted.

She didn’t want someone who made her tongue-tied. She didn’t want someone who couldn’t or wouldn’t hear her. She didn’t want to be silenced.

She wanted to be loud.

And as she looked at Riley, sitting across from her, she realized she could never be loud with him. Just like she had never been loud with Angel, even when they’d argued. He’d always been the older one, the mature one, the one who got to decide, and in the end she’d always let him be, up until she’d gone to LA to tell him off for stalking her on Thanksgiving. And even then, when they’d agreed to work on forgetting, it had still felt like he’d decided that, too.

It was time for her to be the decider. It was time for her to choose, to shout her choice from the mountaintops.

And god help her, she was standing in the Zone of Possibly Poor Judgement.

“I’m sorry,” she said, though she didn’t feel sorry at all. “I just think you should know, before we get into the whole secret identity reveal, that a few things have changed since last night.”

His eyes narrowed. “Since last night? That’s kind of sudden.”

“We still need to talk. I think it’s pretty obvious that there’s something you haven’t been telling me, and it’s time for you to man up and be honest about it. But before we start on that, there’s something else you really, really need to know.”

“Which is?”

“I have a boyfriend.”

“You… I thought we….” Riley’s face was like an open book -- confusion, anger, maybe even a little betrayal. Funny how none of the expressions made her care.

“Well, you thought wrong. Now,” she said, raising her voice just enough to make him sit up straight. “What exactly did you think you had to tell me?”

And she smiled.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I love when I start a fic, and then watch an episode I need to write the fic, and end up getting all sorts of interesting character insights as a result. I had never actually realized that Spike and Buffy literally have zero scenes together in Hush until I started this, and while I have my suspicions as to the behind-the-scenes reasons for the separation, it is much more interesting to think of an in-story reason why they were avoiding each other.


End file.
